


The Evolution of Dance

by Jac_Danvers



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jac_Danvers/pseuds/Jac_Danvers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were many dances in Aaron Hotchner's life, not all of them regarded the same. A character study of Hotch, with some Hotch/Prentiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Evolution of Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds. This story was written prior to the final showdown between the BAU team and George Foyet, so there's an AU element in the end of that story line for the purposes of this story.

Aaron Hotchner hated to dance.

 

Through college and grad school, you couldn't pay him enough money to get on the dance floor. That is, at least, while he was sober. Confidence. He had it when giving presentations in his psych classes, when speaking with the patients and doctors at his internship at the psychiatric facility two towns over. But when it came to dancing in public, he could feel every judgmental eye cast upon him.

 

Hayley would beg and plead every time they went out to the bar, for just one dance. "C'mon baby, you're only young once…"

 

She'd smile that smile, bat those gorgeous blue eyes, make it excessively clear just how low the v-neck of her clingy satin shirt went, and after a few beers, maybe a shot or two for good measure, Aaron would loosen up enough to join her on the dance floor. Or, as it actually occurred, stand motionless in the middle of the dance floor, bobbing his head. The crowds would crush in, one couple less sober than the other, attached at the arms, and the hips, and the lips. The frat boys would jump up and down, daring each other to chug, chug, chug. Hayley, of course, by this point would be wasted, spastically flailing her arms to the beat of the Milli Vanilli, Bobby Brown, and Paula Abdul, in a combination of moves she thought were sexy.

 

It really wasn't. But he loved her, so he let her dance on, and pretended to dance along.

 

Aaron Hotchner hated to dance, at least in the conventional sense of the word.

 

OOO

 

What Aaron Hotchner lacked on the dance floor, he made up for in the interrogation room.

 

In his senior year of college, a few short weeks before grad school application deadlines and still torn between pursuing law or a doctorate in psychology, his academic advisor had suggested looking into behavioral analysis. Aaron laughed him off. It was a new field, the future uncertain.

 

He wanted certainty.

 

So he pursued law, and excelled as a prosecutor in the DC courts. He married Hayley, and they settled down in a little apartment overlooking the Potomac, the best a junior lawyer could rent.

 

She was happy. He was happy.

 

But then he wasn't.

 

Prosecution was empty. Half-assed police interviews and shoddy evidence allowed more criminals to walk than Aaron could deal with. It pressed heavy on his conscious, knowing that with just a stronger case, a little more evidence, a little more insight, the suspect would be off the street and behind bars.

 

On a routine visit to gather evidence and witnesses at Quantico, he saw the notice on the interdepartmental board, advertising an opening at the Behavioral Analysis Unit. In Seattle. It would be quite the change. Hayley would probably disapprove.

 

Six months later, they were living in an apartment overlooking a hookah bar and Aaron was out in the field, investigating his first serial killer.

 

Interrogating his first unsub.

 

He wasn't one for superfluous daydreams, but in his head, he'd imagined it like a scene out of a film noir. Humphrey Bogart, in fedora and trench coat, pacing around the table, a single light beaming on the ragamuffin who stole the fine lady's diamonds. It was a bit of a dance in itself, accusation and defense tossed back and forth, a bit of guessing, plus logic and deduction, until a confession was elicited or they got a lawyer.

 

When he finally stepped into the interrogation room, face to face with a man who murdered seven women, Aaron was overcome with unexpected jitters. In his mind, he mimicked the smooth moves of Humphrey. Confidence secure, he began to talk.

 

The confession was obtained, the case solved, and he could not help but beam with pride.

 

"Nice job," the senior agent said as he stepped out of the room. Behind them, the unsub was

being moved to a jail cell, his face remorseless. "But one suggestion for next time…"

 

"Yes?"

 

"You're no Bogart, Hotch."

 

As his boss turned around, he smiled to himself. Aaron Hotchner might not be able to cut a rug on the dance floor, but he could foxtrot a confession out of an unsub any day.

 

OOO

 

The eye encapsulated in a triangle stared back at him from the page of the admirer's journal. Foyet, playing with him, toying with him, finding new ways to get under his skin and edge him towards the breaking point. He was close enough to it, as it was. The scars on his chest, the scars inflicted upon his emotions. Jack and Hayley hiding away, somewhere he would never know.  Cut off from communication with his own son, for God's sake.

 

The Fox was grinning conspiratorially, satisfied that, though he was imprisoned, he had managed to find a way to shatter the icy exterior of his interrogator.

 

For once in his life, Aaron felt his self-control breaking down, knew he had to get out of that room before he strangled Karl Anderson with his bare hands. He dropped the book on the table, and stalked out, Prentiss close on his heels.

 

It was the day Aaron Hotchner's love for the dance died.

 

Emily Prentiss was the only witness.

 

OOO

 

Aaron Hotchner feared going through the dance again. He didn't have enough pieces of his heart left to be trampled and broken down.

 

The past few months easily qualified as the hardest and most heartbreaking of his life. Foyet had found Hayley and Jack's hideout, executing a perfectly timed attack that killed the US marshal that was supposed to be protecting them. Hayley was paralyzed, a stab severing part of her spinal cord leaving her unable to walk, just moments before Emily shot and killed Foyet.

 

As her father wheeled her out of the hospital, Jack on her lap, the damning look in Hayley's eyes made it clear to Aaron that it would be a long time before he saw his son again. They were moving to Florida, where her parents lived. And no, he didn't have a say in the matter. In all honesty, he probably didn't deserve one.

 

Which was why they were sitting there, drinking away their sorrows at a bar somewhere off the beaten path. Aaron wasn't quite sure why Emily needed to drown in a sea of bourbon and bright pink martinis, but misery loves company, and he wasn't going to question when the woman he slowly found himself more and more interested in chose to stay when the rest of the team left.

 

"Did they make it to Florida?" she asked quietly, ordering again, this time an amaretto sour. Emily had run the gamut of drinks tonight.

 

"Yes."

 

"Do you wish you were there with them?"

 

"I wish I did," he admitted, in a fleeting moment of openness. Aaron never pushed his emotions on the team. They had enough to deal with trying to compartmentalize the trauma they saw every day. No need to burden them with his own issues. "I wish I could say I wanted to drop everything and drive to Florida to be with them. But the job… I can't leave it behind. I don't even get satisfaction from putting the unsub behind bars anymore, but it keeps pulling me back."

 

She nodded, her face a combination of serious and on the verge of passing out. "Take a leave of absence, then. Hotch, this last year… it would have killed anyone weaker than you No one would blame you if you took the time off."

 

Aaron shrugged his shoulders, and replied, "When the time comes."

 

She didn't know what he meant. Neither did he.

 

They stumbled out at last call, once Aaron retrieved Emily from the bathroom where she'd emptied her stomach contents halfway into the toilet. The bartender cast them a disapproving yet sympathetic look, and called a taxi to take them home.

 

Together, the two agents sat in the back seat, staring at each other as they waited for the driver to bring them to Emily's apartment.

 

"You can come in, you know. When we get to my place," she said softly.

 

"We're drunk. It wouldn't be professional."

 

"Hotch; I don't give half a crap about professionalism. You're losing yourself somewhere in that brain of yours. Nothing has to happen tonight. If you want to talk, you can talk. If you want to cry, you can cry. If you need someone to hold you…"

 

Emily smacked a hand over her mouth worried she'd gone too far. With a silent prayer he wasn't reading into things too much, he took her hands away from her mouth a kissed her, slow and a bit sloppy. Blame the alcohol for the latter, as well as his lack of inhibitions.

 

As the cab drove on, Emily held his hand tightly, stroking the back of it with her thumb, whispering every once in a while that everything would turn out alright. He kept an arm tight around her, silent tears falling as he watched the life he dreamed of slip away.

 

Deep inside, though, he felt a bubble of hope. With Emily, there could be something new. He wasn't sure what, but that was alright. There was time to explore, to see what would grow, no reason to rush.

 

Aaron didn't want to go through the dance of love again. And with Emily, he wouldn't have to. The slow seduction, the flowers, the little surprises- all those were completely unnecessary. She'd been broken down enough in her love life to learn to live without it. Just like him.

 

But for Emily Prentiss, Aaron Hotchner really didn't mind going through the dance again.

 

She deserved it.

 

And in a way, so did he.


End file.
